


Precocious

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Not Canon Compliant, Science Boyfriends, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3671595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Precocious little Tony, with his unpractised flirtations, his skinny wrists and his smudgy, coalblack eyelashes. His artless touches and barely-contained sexual frustration.</i>
</p><p>A twenty-three year old Bruce meets a sixteen year old Tony at MIT, and recognises the injustice of being a teenager in a PhD program.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Precocious

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the summary, there are no underage shenanigans in this. Bruce is very responsible.
> 
> [Baby Tony](http://static.mybs.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/Robert-Downey-Jr-Weird-Science-3-hottest-actors-32268202-500-281.gif)   
>  [Baby Bruce](https://31.media.tumblr.com/21a7b51bbec4bcb94e9b3db49833c8ea/tumblr_inline_mw6am7gBK11rf30s2.gif)
> 
> You can add me [on Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/).

The first time Bruce Banner stepped off the bus and out into MIT's sprawling campus, he felt a palpable sense of pride welling up in his chest. It overflowed in him and he stopped for a moment to sit on his battered, second-hand suitcase and gaze around him. He was twenty-three years old and after years of part-time jobs and community college, he had finally secured a coveted place on MIT's biochemistry Masters program. He wished his mother could see him and share his pride. He wished his father could see him and recognise his hard work, his intelligence. Against the odds he had made it here and now... Bruce thought of his research agenda, the lavishly-appointed lab space, the prospect of doctoral research, maybe. He had a hundred dollars left in his bank account, a modest scholarship and a position as a research assistant for the year. He had everything, everything he had ever wanted.

Some days later, after he had unpacked into his tiny room, filled his kitchen shelf with rice and beans and sat through safety lectures, he met his fellow research assistants for the first time. Mostly they were in their twenties, promising graduate students eager to be a part of a bigger project. There was an easy rapport right away amongst the six young men and women, a shared language of science and a camaraderie which coalesced over research ideas and beer. The development of these fledging friendships was a novelty and a delight for Bruce, coming as it did on the heels of a childhood of violence and a youth of hard graft and bootstraps. He was starting to let himself view his acceptance as a reward for his earlier labours; here he was, busy, happy, liked.

And then there was Tony. Tony was small, teenage-skinny, fast-talking and had olive skin and dark hair that made Bruce initially assume him to be Italian. Tony offered no surname, just leaned over his desk to grab a folder, smiled hugely and offered his first name. He was hard to ignore, all rapid fire joking and quicksilver thinking with an underlying brittleness that nobody seemed to notice. He was a PhD student, finishing up a brilliant research project in applied mechanics that Bruce understood very little of; it was a wonder that the biochemistry department had managed to poach him. It wasn't until weeks later that a chance comment by another student revealed that Tony was the genius scion of the Stark family. Bruce faintly remembered the news articles about the bright boy accepted to MIT but had dismissed them as the vanity of the wealthy, a spoiled rich kid riding on his father's coattails. Seeing Tony work forces him to reassess, at least about the coattails. If there had been any ego left in Bruce, he might have envied the lad his lightning smarts and his easy charm.

As it happened, Bruce’s energies were almost wholly concerned with his classes in those early days. He traversed the campus in a state akin to bliss, trawled the library in his spare time and lay in his narrow bed each night drifting off to sleep with equations dancing behind his eyes. A tentative discussion with a professor opened up to him a potential avenue for PhD research, a project that began to coalesce in the form of scrawled preliminary notes in snatched moments. His life adopted a serene kind of balance. He spent roughly half his time in the lab or in classes, learned the bliss of regular meals and sleep, and let himself be rounded up for a trip to the bar at least a couple of times a week. He gave himself weekends off, sitting in lush parks or tiny cafes to devour thick slices of cake and journal articles. Mostly, his days were spent with books and lab equipment and his faithful old computer, with the gentle hum of the lab assistants’ chatter in the background and the soft beeping of machines.

Tony did not register greatly on his radar – why should he? He seemed like a well-intentioned kid, obviously smart and painfully immature. His high-octane presence was erratic; he flitted between two different departments, disappeared for days to work on personal projects and then reappeared to wheedle alcohol out of Ada, or pester Ravi about upgrading his laptop with experimental software, or infuriatingly supply the answer to some much-pondered research problem.

Unfortunately for his new-found serenity the dynamic of the lab was changed somewhat when, in the second month of the semester, the professor heading up the research project saw fit to deliver Tony an ultimatum. Show up for the required twelve hours a week, the youngster was told, or return to the engineering department. The threat of being kicked off a project so novel and intellectually stimulating proved powerful: he obediently arrived three afternoons a week and measured, logged and tinkered with the rest of them. Privately, Bruce thought that the discipline was rather good for him.  

Discipline, Bruce thought, had obviously not been a priority in Tony’s life. He was prone to throwing out potentially good ideas because they bored him. He never checked through his own work, but he was not above interfering with someone else’s if he thought he could do better. Bruce took to removing his notebooks to his room at the end of each day, lest he spend half of the next afternoon listening to Tony yammer about the groundbreaking alterations that he had scribbled haphazardly on the neat pages. He possessed a remarkable charisma beyond his years, but would instantly revert to a hesitant boyishness when lacking an answer. His music was loud, frequently terrible and often started up without warning. Finally, after another beaker went skittering out of Bruce’s hand and along the countertop, he took matters in hand. Tony turned around with an impish grin as Bruce stamped up behind him and turned off the stereo.

‘Look,’ he started with exasperation, ‘Surely you can use headphones for this, Tony?’ Much to his surprise, Tony complied.

Then, days later, Bruce came back from lunch to find Tony sitting at his desk, feet up on Bruce’s chair and flipping through his notes. Bruce sighed, divesting him of the notebook.

‘Please don’t put your feet on my chair,’ he said, as neutrally as possible, because he didn’t want to be rude. ‘And, you know, it would be polite to _ask_ before reading my notes.’ Tony cocked his head to one side like a dark little bird and drew one foot up onto the desk, wrapping his arms around his knee.

‘Sorry,’ he said, as if the word was new to him. ‘You should try different ratios for the perchloric acid stuff - that’s why your reactions are off, it’s, like, a cascade kind of thing... look, if you just...’ He grabbed a pencil and started crossing out numbers and replacing them with his own.

And so it went; Tony would appear, wreak some kind of havoc, or commit some solecism. Bruce would fetch paper towels or a broom, outline some norm of social behaviour and gently herd Tony back into his nightmarishly messy corner. He felt a little like a mother hen. On some days that was almost enough for him to lose his temper but… wouldn’t that be unkind? Tony was a kid, and a kid who never spoke about his family, who wasn’t old enough to drink with everyone else, and who was universally expected to be a prodigy at all times.

By the end of the year, Tony had written up his final thesis and was at a loose end awaiting his defense. Bruce had started a large research project in earnest, staying late in the lab long past the other assistants. In the long, quiet evenings, he was free to experiment using the equipment before shutting it all down and locking up behind him. Tony took to hanging around with him, sometimes sticking his oar in (and receiving dark frowns in return), sometimes pulling some machine or other apart or hammering away at his keyboard working on some interminable AI code. Later in the evenings, as the clock’s hands crept towards 9pm and Bruce began yawning, he would sometimes catch Tony watching him, chin resting on his fists stacked one atop the other. Then he would nonchalantly move closer, looking over Bruce’s shoulder, or fiddling with something on Bruce’s desk.

One night, as Bruce was thinking of packing up, his skinny supervisor hauled himself up to perch on the desk. Their heads bowed close together as Tony leaned in to read something on the computer screen and, just for a second, Bruce caught Tony’s eyes surreptitiously flick his way. _Good God_ , thought Bruce, _I’m going to have to have The Talk with him_. He quietly castigated himself for not seeing it sooner. Precocious little Tony, with his unpractised flirtations, his skinny wrists and his smudgy, coalblack eyelashes. His artless touches and barely-contained sexual frustration.

'I'm seven years older than you,' Bruce informed him sternly. 'Get off my desk.'

'I like experience in a man,' replied Tony, inching closer and sucking his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment. 'Your math is wrong _there_.' He reached out a hand and poked the computer screen. ‘Let me just…’ Bruce removed his glasses with a sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

'I'm going for coffee,' he informed Tony.

In the breakroom, he poured out two generous mugs, leaving his own black and loading Tony's with milk and sugar. He was by now quite sure that Tony didn't like coffee and that his relentless consumption was, like so many other things about him, a carefully-constructed artifice to make him look older. They sipped from their respective mugs in silence, Tony trailing Bruce back to the kitchenette and watching the washing-up without offering to help.

‘So, end of semester next week,’ Tony started. ‘Are you going home?’ Bruce pauses for a moment in his washing.

‘No,’ he says, finally. ‘Summer funding.’ He didn’t particularly want to get into the absence of parents and the lack of any real home.

‘I have to, and it _sucks_ ,’ Tony said, with very teenage emphasis. There was a long pause and he shuffles one foot along a rip in the carpet. ‘I defend next week and then I leave.’ Bruce started to dry the mugs, the subtext ringing loud in his ears. He sympathised – how could he not? The poor kid was finishing a PhD before normal teenagers first went off to university. No parties, no dumb pranks, no getting laid. And so here he was, days before leaving MIT, applying his not inconsequential boyish charm to his lab mate. Bruce stacked the mugs and turned.

‘We’ll do something fun before you leave,’ he said, and then quickly amended, ‘In the lab, I mean. All of us.’ He put his arm around Tony’s slim shoulders, the lad leaned into him with a sigh, and they walked back down the corridor to the lab together.


	2. Insistent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years after Tony graduates, he comes back to visit Bruce and (try to) finish what he (tried to) start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted so badly for Tony to be wise-cracking and sexy and in control, but he wanted to be a sad, broken teenager. Whoops.
> 
> [Baby Tony](http://static.mybs.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/Robert-Downey-Jr-Weird-Science-3-hottest-actors-32268202-500-281.gif)   
>  [Baby Bruce](https://31.media.tumblr.com/21a7b51bbec4bcb94e9b3db49833c8ea/tumblr_inline_mw6am7gBK11rf30s2.gif)

'So,' said a disembodied voice, 'You're going to be Dr Bruce Banner, PhD.' Bruce turned and there, slouching against the doorframe of his new apartment, was Tony.

'And you found my address by...?'

'Magic,' Tony said, making elaborate typing gestures in mid-air. 'I know, no need to welcome me, I can tell you're thrilled to see me.' He shucked his black blazer and threw it over a chair. 'I'm ministering to the youth tomorrow,' he added, 'A motivational speech, anything is possible when you work hard and believe, etcetera.'

'Anything is possible when your family is filthy rich,' Bruce corrected. 'Why are you taking your shoes off?'

'I'm very polite. I'm also staying over tonight. As it happens, I can avoid my diligent handlers if I tell them I'm staying with a friend.'

Bruce sighed faintly and gestured to the boxes stacked against the wall.

'Tony, I’m barely staying here right now. The only things that're unpacked are the - look, I'm not exactly prepared for guests.'

He was taller, now, taller than Bruce, and if he was narrower in the shoulders he was certainly not without some muscle. As Tony crossed the floor to lift a flap of one box open, Bruce could see very little physically of the gawky kid he’d shared lab space with. Times had changed, he supposed. He’d read the obituaries in the paper, of course; the lines of text detailing the life and times of Howard Stark, and the pitiful sentences tacked on the end about Maria, ‘wife of’. That was close to two years ago now, right after Tony had graduated. Bruce hadn’t thought of him much, too tied up in his work and his doctoral applications to call or email, but he had felt a little stab when he read the news. Tony had emailed a few months later, some witty one-liner and a link to a tiny stub article from a local newspaper about ‘promising research from MIT graduate student Bruce Banner’. Bruce had emailed back _Ha ha ha, I’ll attach it to my next grant letter_ and that had been it, really.

He was not prepared for the immediacy of Tony, here and older and more assured. He was wearing a deodorant or cologne with a fresh scent, something like lemongrass.

‘By the way,’ Tony continued as he casually rifled through Bruce’s possessions, ‘I’d like to take this opportunity to remind all interested parties that I turned eighteen last month.’

‘Congratulations,’ Bruce called back repressively as he dragged a box of kitchen equipment into the kitchen, ‘you can vote now.’ _But you still have no boundaries around other people’s personal possessions_ , he added silently. There was a long silence and he let it hang in the air as he unpacked into the little white cupboards. He had cracked open the windows when he arrived, and the late August afternoon was spilling into the galley kitchen and across the mint linoleum floor. Tony’s black socks broke up the light for a moment and then his silhouette was thrown across the floor as he sat on the edge of the windowsill. There was a little cigarette burn on the inside of his turned-out wrist, oval and deliberate. Bruce looked at it and Tony followed his gaze.

‘Sorry I never called,’ he said casually. ‘It was, you know, life.’ He ran a hand through his hair in a futile effort to make it lie flatter. Bruce felt himself make a little shrugging motion.

‘Well, we were both busy,’ he said, which was mostly true. ‘I was sorry to hear about your folks.’ That was certainly true. Tony’s jaw flexed to one side as he bit his cheek for a second.

‘Thanks.’

‘How long will you be in town for?’ Bruce asked after a moment, wanting to extend some kindness. He wouldn’t be officially required to be on campus for another week. He had a battered couch and extra pillows. ‘If you’re having a hard time…’

The brittleness that Bruce had always felt in Tony was better hidden now, but when Tony turned his head to avoid the unspoken question and shrugged nonchalantly it was clear as day. Precocity and quick jokes and innuendo be damned: Tony was here for a reason. He obviously didn't need a place to stay and as Bruce scrutinised the clear skin, newly-muscular frame and the shadow of real facial hair, he was all too aware that Tony could not possibly need a tired and introverted graduate student to scratch any fleeting primal itches. So the question, when it came, was abrupt and unexpected:

‘Why didn't you want to go to bed with me?’

‘Well, you’ve only been here ten minutes,’ answered Bruce, methodically slotting cutlery into a drawer.

‘No, back in the lab.’ Tony shifted his weight on the windowsill and picked at the small burn on his wrist. Bruce lifted his head and stared.

‘Two years ago, Tony?’ He couldn’t quite keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘You were sixteen. It would have been colossally inappropriate.’ Tony’s chin came up like a prizefighter expecting a punch. ‘You were a sweet kid, but you really were just a kid.’

‘Oh my _God_ , Bruce,’ said Tony, prickling up and looking straight at the older man with a hint of a sneer, ‘It wasn’t like I was a _virgin_ then, you know.’

Bruce closed the drawer very slowly with his fingertips without looking at Tony. He walked back into the living area, stalling for time, and Tony ghosted after him. Tony watched as Bruce pushed his bookshelf snug into a corner of the room and started aligning the books on the shelves, flipping each the right way up and sorting textbooks onto one shelf, fiction onto another. _What do you even say,_ thought Bruce, _to a kid hurting this much?_ Well, maybe just that.

‘I’m not sure what answer you’re looking for,’ said Bruce, finally giving up his unpacking and circumnavigating the couch to lean against the wall next to Tony. Tony exhaled out a big breath and shrugged.

‘I guess you’re still seven years older than me,’ he said, laying on the sarcasm. Bruce tipped his head sideways along the wall.

‘Always will be.’

‘I just don’t get it,’ Tony said vehemently, pushing himself off the wall and standing in front of Bruce with his arms folded across his chest. ‘I’m older, old enough, and you’ve got a new place on your own, and I’m _smart_ , and I show up and you still don’t want me. Like, _what_ am I doing wrong?’ Bruce almost, just almost, wanted to laugh in that moment. Tony’s scattergun approach could hardly be called a winning seduction technique, although Bruce would readily allow that he wasn’t as susceptible to casual approaches as some folks.

‘Two years ago,’ Bruce began gently, ‘I had just started a degree program that I was dying to succeed in, and you were very young, a little bit annoying – I’m sorry, but really – and not very good at making passes.’ Tony cast a quick look at him from under his eyelashes, sulky but listening. ‘Today you show up and you go from cartoonishly sexual to pouting in fifteen minutes. Either your previous conquests were much quicker off the blocks than I am, or you need to work on your people skills.’

‘People usually make it pretty clear what they want from me,’ Tony replied with a crushing kind of inevitability in his voice.

‘That’s sad, actually’ Bruce told him quietly. _Does he not have friends_? He managed to restrain himself from asking that question, by a hair. ‘I mean, Tony.’ Bruce gathered himself for a moment, but of course Tony jumped in.

‘Except that I like you,’ he said, ‘And you don’t like me, which is _whatever_ , but you were good to me and I thought maybe it was just my age, and not that I’m unfuckable, which I apparently am.’

‘You’re not unfuckable,’ Bruce said, too quickly, meaning it. Really meaning it, as he looked Tony straight on and saw the bone structure lifting through the puppy fat, the slender fingers and the dark eyes. As soon as the words left his mouth, Tony grinned with a predatory cast and morphed instantly into some more seductive incarnation of himself. Bruce didn’t want to think too hard about what that kind of lightning-quick change signifies about Tony’s recent past.

‘So I’m staying over, right?’ Tony laughed with a subtle edge of relief in his voice. Bruce pulled off his glasses for a moment and rubbed them on his shirt. Before he could put them back on, Tony took his wrist and stepped closer. Bruce looked at him, frowning a little to focus his eyes.

‘Why me, Tony?’

‘You were always so nice to me.’

‘That’s not really a reason to—’

Tony barreled on, interrupting. ‘You were always nice to me, and you didn’t make a big deal about my surname, and you have this sexy older guy thing.’

‘Well,’ Bruce replied, hovering on the edge of flustered, ‘It’s not like you have to repay—’

‘Shut up,’ Tony said, and he hooked his free arm around Bruce’s neck and kissed him. Standing there with his glasses in his right hand, Tony’s fingers locked around his wrist and the nape of his neck, Bruce had the distinct feeling of being blindsided. Still, Tony’s mouth was warm and insistent on his and he smelled good and honestly, it had been a while since Bruce had thought about anything but work. He flipped his glasses onto the couch and rested his hands on each side of Tony’s waist. ‘Bedroom,’ Tony said indistinctly into his mouth and, heaven help him, Bruce assented and led the way.


	3. Desirous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce rather surprises himself by taking Tony to bed, and Tony rather surprises himself by having fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Baby Tony](http://static.mybs.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/Robert-Downey-Jr-Weird-Science-3-hottest-actors-32268202-500-281.gif)   
>  [Baby Bruce](https://31.media.tumblr.com/21a7b51bbec4bcb94e9b3db49833c8ea/tumblr_inline_mw6am7gBK11rf30s2.gif)

Bruce had to congratulate himself on his foresight as he let himself fall backwards onto his bed and pulled Tony down with him. Making the bed as soon as he arrived in a new home was a habit borne of long years jumping from place to place. The ability to tumble onto clean sheets with an infuriating, beautiful mess of a boy was an unexpected benefit. He slid himself up the bed with his elbows, hands on Tony's waist. Tony had his slender fingers wrapped in Bruce's shirtfront and his lips and tongue feverishly working on Bruce's open mouth. He tasted like mint gum with a hint of a cigarette sneaked earlier, and the fresh, sporty scent of his deodorant was a bright counterpoint to the warm smell of his skin and hair. As if reading his mind, Tony pulled his mouth away and stared into Bruce's face. 

‘You smell good,’ he said, and through the rain of eager teenage kisses along his jaw Bruce replied with warm amusement, 

‘I smell like a day of moving boxes.’ That was true enough; Bruce had hauled a dozen boxes up three flights of stairs earlier with sweat dewing his back and arms. Tony nuzzled into the open neck of Bruce's shirt, pressing his face into the cotton. 

‘It's _good_ ,’ he breathed again, and Bruce caught the back of his head in one hand and brought their mouths back together.  

 Bruce, if asked privately, would probably have described his sexual experience as narrow but deep; just two past relationships - one with a woman - and a couple of flings. He would, however, describe himself as an excellent kisser, languorous and thorough and very patient.  Tony was straddling him and making impatient little motions with his hands and hips, and Bruce gently pulled him flat so they were chest to chest. 

‘Slow down,’ he said with lazy arousal deepening his voice, bringing his arm around Tony's waist. He devoted himself to several blissful minutes of exploring Tony's mouth with his tongue. Tony made an anguished little sound in his throat and wriggled his body on Bruce's.  

‘Bruce,’ he began, but Bruce cut him off with a gentle hand over his lips. 

‘We've got all evening, and all night too,’ he said softly. The afternoon was just sliding into a golden evening, the bedroom rich with subdued light and deep shadows. Late sunshine was highlighting the lines of Tony's face, pooling and shifting on his cheeks as he licked his bottom lip. Bruce ran his hands up Tony's sides, pushing his t-shirt up, and Tony obligingly contorted himself to pull it over his head. Lean and surprisingly tanned, Tony knelt up and stretched his arms above his head with a showgirl’s white-toothed smile. ‘Very nice,’ Bruce said, unable to stop himself from grinning. Sweet, showy Tony laughed with delight and started working on the buttons of Bruce’s shirt.

‘Wow,’ Tony said abruptly, ‘chest rug.’

 Bruce shook his head against the mattress, feeling his stubble scratch against the blue checked cotton.

‘How can you be so sharp and have such lousy pillow talk?’ Bruce asked, and Tony made an indignant face.

‘I don’t usually _talk_ in bed with people,’ he said, sounding flustered.

‘What a curious change from your usual self,’ Bruce told him. He sat up for a moment, shifting Tony’s weight backwards onto his propped-up knees, and shucked his shirt off his shoulders. Tony’s hands hovered briefly, as if to help, and then retreated. He was hesitant, Bruce thought, as though bereft of a script. He brought Tony closer towards him with a hand on the small of his back. ‘I won’t make fun,’ he said apologetically. He pressed a couple of easy, open-mouthed kisses along Tony’s sharply-defined collarbone. ‘What do you want?’

Tony stuttered for a minute.

‘I guess I thought we were going to fuck,’ he said, intonation rising at the end like a question.

‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’ Bruce returned, levering himself back down to the mattress and hooking Tony’s legs between his with an ankle. The smallest sigh drifted from Tony’s mouth as he settled himself back along Bruce’s body, rested his cheek on Bruce’s shoulder.

‘It’s usually quicker,’ he said, ‘And there’s less kissing.’

Bruce eased his hands down the back of Tony’s jeans, palming his ass and earning a soft, insistent noise in return.

‘Is that what you want? Less kissing?’ In response, Tony slipped a hand down between them and began fumbling open his jeans; Bruce pushed them down his thighs and Tony rolled to the edge of the bed to drop them on the floor. Bruce mirrored him, kicking off his pants and socks. ‘Tony,’ Bruce said again, sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘I want—’ said Tony, flushed down his neck and dick erect. ‘I want, I want more kisses. And I want us to be naked, and I want to suck you off and,’ he sucked his lower lip into his mouth and swallowed hard, ‘I just want _everything_.’ He finished emphatically, blushing but staring at Bruce as if he was issuing a challenge. Bruce reached over, held Tony’s chin in his hand for a moment.

‘We can do all that,’ he said, and without waiting for permission Tony slid to his knees on the floor, manoeuvred Bruce out of his boxers and slipped his mouth over Bruce’s cock. Bruce heard himself exhale, watched Tony’s dark, scruffy head moving, his cheeks hollowing rhythmically. Tony’s had one hand wrapped around Bruce’s cock and another rubbing at his own through his underwear, and he was making panting, whimpering noises with ever breath. Bruce resisted the urge to tangle both hands in Tony’s hair, instead cupping the back of his neck and propping himself up on his other arm to watch. Tony was keen and gave an energetic, somewhat sloppy blowjob, rolling his tongue over the head of Bruce’s cock and turning his brown eyes up to gauge the reaction. He blinked long and slow and deliberate, and Bruce involuntarily thrust into his mouth a little too far, making him gag. Tony pulled off for a moment, chin and hand wet with spit. He wiped his chin on his forearm, still looking up at Bruce with red, wet lips parted and Bruce exhaled a short laugh.

‘Jesus Christ, Tony,’ he said, wonderingly.

Tony must have misinterpreted, because he gave a little shrug and said, brazenly, ‘I can take it all if you like, I was just surprised.’

‘No need,’ Bruce murmured, leaning down to take Tony’s face in his hands and kiss him deeply. Tony’s hands lay on his own thighs, palms up, and he leaned hard into Bruce’s kiss. His cock was standing to attention and Bruce took pity, taking him by the arms and pulling him back to the bed.

Bruce rolled Tony down flat on his back and moved over him, lavishing his throat with kisses, tangling both hands in his hair and pushing their hips together. Tony gave a little gasp and fought his boxers down, then Bruce’s. There was a brief, undignified moment as they each tried to divest themselves of their underwear and Tony giggled for a second, high and compulsive and a touch nervous, but then they were naked and pressed together. The light outside was almost gone now, and with just the light from street lamps to see by it was all touch and smell and taste. Tony curled his hips up against Bruce’s as if they were already fucking, and Bruce wrapped his hand around them both so their cocks slid against one another, wet with Tony’s spit.

Tony’s eyes were squeezed shut and he was panting out the softest moan each time their dicks pressed together; his arms gripped Bruce’s biceps and his feet scrabbled against the bed. He arched his back, forgetting to be sultry or whorish or sexual, gasped when Bruce bent his head to pull an earlobe into his mouth. _No stamina_ , Bruce thought to himself with an amusement that bordered on delight but with very little surprise. He pushed away the thought of Tony’s obviously inappropriate and probably unsatisfying sexual history, suppressing the analytical part of his brain that told him _hypersexuality_ and _coercion_ and _no boundaries_. His own breath was coming fast and rough and he felt the sweat prickle on his back, his arms start to shake with the effort of holding himself up.

‘Stroke your dick, Tony,’ he said into the boy’s ear, and Tony gave a sudden, breathy moan and complied, his fingers overlapping Bruce’s as they jerked off together with quick, sharp strokes. Then Tony’s face crumpled and he opened his eyes straight into Bruce’s gaze.

‘Mm,’ he said, voice tight, and ‘Bruce, Bruce, yes,’ and then he was coming, arching his throat back and moaning in blissful relief. His hand spasmed on their dicks and he spurted across his belly, up his chest and throat.

‘God,’ Bruce said, licking a messy stripe up Tony’s neck. Tony looked truly obscene, lying loose and sweaty with his pupils dilated. Bruce's orgasm hit him like a truck and he buried his face in Tony’s neck and groaned, feeling his come trickling warm and thick over his fingers. He rolled off to his left, trailing his right hand on Tony’s stomach, and the two gazed at each other for a minute.

‘How,’ Tony said, ‘I mean.’ Bruce laughed without inhibition.

‘It should be fun,’ he said, not really able to articulate how sex had always been a joy for him, and not really wanting to in the haze of endorphins and calm.

‘It was,’ Tony breathed, leaning in for another kiss and resting with his head pillowed on Bruce’s arm.

Later, they will shower together and Tony will be hard again in seconds, and Bruce will deliver him a slow, teasing blowjob as the water runs lukewarm. Later, they will scavenge up pasta and eat it on the couch together. Then they will sleep, and wake, and have lazy morning sex, and Tony will leave but promise to come back. There is later for conversations and histories and understanding. In the moment, though, they lie together and grin stupidly at each other and Bruce will think _precocious little Tony_ and forgive him for all the things he does that really aren’t his fault.


End file.
